


Flagrant Flap Destruction 3:  The Unwatchening

by mahwaha



Category: Homestuck
Genre: And general sexiness, F/F, Porn Watching, Schmoop, So no worries there, Total lack of sexual interaction, Vague descriptions of alien junk
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-17
Updated: 2015-03-17
Packaged: 2018-03-18 06:33:38
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,110
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3559709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mahwaha/pseuds/mahwaha
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“You’re gross,” Meulin says. Her East Beforan’s improving, but her voice sounds higher than she remembers it—especially next to Damara’s.</p><p>“Show me your chute. I’ll be troll Mike Rowe.”</p><p>The hentai helps when Damara sounds like she could write the scripts and voice act, especially for catty blackrom pieces. Pail-o-thons are nothing but educational, even if Meulin still doesn’t know how to ask what time it is or for directions.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Flagrant Flap Destruction 3:  The Unwatchening

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Jelliheart (Jellibeebee)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jellibeebee/gifts).



“Kyah! Amelie, your bonebulge is so slippery!”

“That’s not all that’ll be slippery when I’m done with you...”

“Oh! Oh! Oh!”

Meulin understands “I can feel your genetic material drowning my seedflap,” without reading the Common Beforan subtitles. She knows because she’s too busy boggling at Amelie’s bonebulge to read them. It’s been sweeps upon dreambubble sweeps since she’s actually heard troll Vic Mignogna’s voice acting, but Vic pales in comparison to that bonebulge. And yeah, cochlear implants are really _furivolous_ for an afterlife, but Meulin likes them more after figuring out how to hear. (Or how to not hear, in Kankri’s case.)

She boggles more when she notices that that bulge is _defurnitely_ not aiming for nook.

“Damn,” Meulin mutters. Damara glances to her on cue—Meulin’s eyes are wide like that on-screen seedflap, and she’s sucking smoke down like it’s a shot from her inhaler. Damara snaps her fingers at Meulin’s cheek, smirking.

“Pass the nip. I have better things you can suck.”

Meulin snorts, breaking from her stupor to pass the blunt. The grin on her squat face rivals the wide internal cumshot as _Flagrant Flap Destruction 3_ lives up to its name.

“You’re gross,” Meulin says. Her East Beforan’s improving, but her voice sounds higher than she remembers it—especially next to Damara’s.

“Show me your chute. I’ll be troll Mike Rowe.”

The hentai helps when Damara sounds like she could write the scripts and voice act, especially for catty blackrom pieces. Pail-o-thons are nothing but educational, even if Meulin still doesn’t know how to ask what time it is or for directions.

Instead, she nudges Damara’s side and signs, “I will if you show me your pretty smile! Then we can cuddle.”

Damara frowns and Meulin lights up like a beacon. After all, Meulin knows Damara’s normal vocabulary; she’s learned it in Common and East Beforan. She’s also gone out of her way to omit it from Damara’s BSL lessons, just for funsies. So Damara gives Meulin a universal sign, middle finger standing tall and tipped with polish at the nail.

“I’ll teach you the signs for _Flagrant Flap Destruction 3_ dialogue if you teach me how to catpun in East Beforan,” Meulin says, slipping into too-loud Common as she curls into Damara’s side.

“I’ll teach if you dress up as a kitty for me. Then stop seeing useless clown trash.” Damara’s arm floats over Meulin’s tense shoulders before landing, where her nails scritch just so behind a horn. She lets Meulin try to pillow her face on a rumblesphere for the novelty—Damara hasn’t had them since she hit six. She lets Meulin dig into her, her bulk hard from tension, until the horn scritches do their job. Meulin relaxes in increments, eases until she feels like a warm mass of squish instead of a cannonball.

“I’ll think about it.”

“You always think.”

“Do not,” Meulin sniffs. “I’m always updating my Bubblr. And crushing you with my fluff.” She wraps her arms around Damara with a searching smile and wide, blank eyes. Damara glances to her before relenting to the tight scrunch of her eyebrows. This is a conversation that dies many deaths. She can relate. It makes her wonder why she’s still trying to have it.

For a stretch, they let the slick sounds of flap destruction fill in their silence. Damara sucks the blunt into a bud before leaving it to the tray. Meulin doesn’t complain; she’s busy sneaking peeks of Damara’s long, stern face and seeing how long she can go unnoticed.

“Oh god! Your genetic material! There’s so much of it!”

“You feel like a long piece of tarp covered in lubricant that’s used for the sole purpose of sliding on.”

“Kyaaaaah!”

The answer is ‘not long’—’not long’, because Meulin’s stomach thunders right before another orgasm blasts through the husktop’s speakers. Damara shoves her shoulder, all angles sinking into Meulin’s side before she sits up.

“Nyaaaaah,” Meulin mocks. The sound stabs her ears. Damara smirks, anyway.

“Dare you to eat from the bucket,” Damara says. It’s almost enough to make Meulin’s hand jerk back from where she proffers it. Instead, she sniffs and raises her chin while she pulls Damara to stand. Smiling, she squeezes Damara’s hand before dropping it.

“Eat what?” She signs.

“Shit,” Damara snips.

“No.” Laughing, Meulin skips toward the nutritionblock. She’s already rummaging when Damara slinks in after her.

“We can fill the bucket. Then eat.”

“Nope,” Meulin says, breezy. “But I’m _purrlazed_ and hungry. I’ll eat all of your creamed ice from the bucket, if you wanna share.”

“Bad pun.” Still, Damara works hard to hold onto her frown. She drifts toward the sink to rinse out her pail, still spattered with obscene red syrup and dark ropes of chocolate.

From the entertainmentblock, she can still hear the low-quality hentai roll.

“Slide on me, Amelie! Ah! Ah! Slide on me faster!”

“I’m sliding on you. I’m sliding. You’re so slippery that I might slide off.”

“Ah! Ah! Ah! I’m gonna fall!”

Meulin hefts the creamed ice tube in her arms, half-empty. Sighing, Damara makes a haphazard attempt to scrub the pail before dumping it out and passing it over. She lets Meulin squeeze while she fetches syrup and long-handled serving spoons, then sets them aside on the counter so she can lean into Meulin’s back.

“Let me unload on your glutes,” she says, burying the words between Meulin’s horns. Even so, there’s no heat to it. Damara tucks her skinny arms beneath Meulin’s like a shadow, half-watching her fill the pail. Meulin chirrs away while she works, solid as a wall while Damara begins to hang off of her. “I’ll let you release on mine.”

“Can I cofur your rumblespheres with creamed ice?”

“Yes.”

“What about your nook?”

“Only if you lick clean.”

“Your face?”

“All over my face.”

“ _In_ your face?” Meulin prods, a smile in her voice.

“Fill my mouth until I choke,” Damara prods back, hands finding Meulin’s shoulders as she stands straight. When Meulin tips her head back to grin up at Damara, her eyebrows arch. She looks like a smug, fat feline, Damara thinks. Damara also thinks that she is more than knuckle deep in this pussy.

“I want you to sit on my lap,” Meulin whispers, batting her eyes. “And we’ll put on _Rumbleroar and the Quest for Twin Spheres_. And then we’ll eat creamed ice and make fun of Rumbleroar’s pailing face.” With her hands bracing the sides of the pail, Meulin makes it look light as smoke.

“And then we’ll cuddle,” Damara signs, only wincing a little when Meulin squeals.

“Yes! Yes! Yes!” Chants the husktop.


End file.
